


a life's long in living (if the living be free)

by larkgrace



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, space pirate lesbians, this would be easier if i'd ever watched star trek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkgrace/pseuds/larkgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annabeth has a bad habit of working herself to distraction. Thankfully, Reyna's more than willing to do the distracting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a life's long in living (if the living be free)

**Author's Note:**

> aha you'll see their respective ranks mentioned in here and i realize it's unlikely that a rear admiral would be doing something as menial as inventory checks but hey they're in the middle of a rebellion
> 
> also i put a little bit of thought into their rankings but if you're curious about my justifications you can message me about it!

It’s a long evening of plotting trajectories to steer you well clear of star clusters that leads to you slumped in your chair, feet propped on the trash can under your command console. It’s a long evening of squinting at data readouts in the poor lighting that the bridge offers that leads to you slumped in your chair with a _massive headache._

You still have a long evening ahead of you, as you’re monitoring the scanners for space debris while you’re trying to keep up with Rear Amiral Rashid rattling of lists of supplies in your headset—food, clean water, ammunition, all frighteningly low. You’re going to have to jump a supply ship soon; going to have to hack the Empire’s infonets and locate the nearest freighter and come up with a plan of attack that will get you out with minimal damage because repairs aren’t really an option right now—

The door behind you hisses open and shut, and as you read numbers back into your headset a thin pair of arms wind around your midsection, and a dark braid brushes your cheek as the owner props their chin on your chair. “So things are looking pretty grim,” you sigh into the mic.

“When aren’t they?” says a voice in your headset as the person behind you hums sympathetically, and starts working your bun loose. “We can call Captain LaRue in the morning, start working on a plan for a raid. And we’ll need to see how close the rest of the fleet is.”

“Urgh,” you say, voice maybe a smidge higher than usual, because the hands carding through your hair have wandered down to knead your thighs. A chapped pair of lips brush the nape of your neck, and you shiver. “I can honestly say I’m not looking forward to arguing strategy with her.”

“No one ever does,” Zia Rashid says. “Believe me, I speak from experience. Do you have the inventory logged or do I need to repeat it?”

“It’s written down, I’ll enter it into the system in a minute,” you tell her, and you’d hope that Zia didn’t notice the strain in your voice but of course you know she did. It’s a little hard to keep your composure when those exploratory hands have slipped under your shirt.

“Mmm, you don’t have to do that _tonight,”_ the voice behind you murmurs.

You cup your hand over the mic and hiss, _“Reyna,_ not now, please.”

In the headset, Zia snorts. “Put me on speaker, Chase,” she tells you.

“On it,” you squeak, as fingertips brush the bottom of your bra and you nearly miss the button on the console.

“Fleet Admiral Ramírez,” Zia says, her voice echoing. “Am I right to assume that the captain will be unavailable for the rest of the evening?”

“You would be correct,” Reyna says evenly, and you bite your lip as her hands skim your hips.

“Then, if I may put in a request,” Zia responds, “would you please kindly—what’s the phrase?— _get a room.”_

They both start laughing, and Reyna says, “That can be arranged.”

“And for Ra’s sake, turn of the damn microphone,” Zia laughs, and there’s a crackle as Reyna reaches over you to close the line.

You’re up and out of your chair, and she’s still smiling. “I was working,” you say.

“You’re useless if you don’t rest,” she tells you.

“Well, there ain’t no rest for the runaway rebel, is there?” you quip.

“I don’t think that’s how the song goes,” she tells you, and you step around the chair until there’s nothing but a few inches of air between your chests.

“In any case,” you say as you wind one arm around her neck, “I seem to have the rest of the night off.” Your free hand sets to working her braid loose, her sleek hair tumbling in waves across her shoulder. She leans back to reach for something on the table, and the arch of her spine means her hips and stomach press against yours, and her skin is feverishly warm—she always is, it’s a reprieve from the bone-deep chill of empty space that pervades the entire ship. You’re almost disappointed when she straightens up, less so when she raises her hand to display the two wineglasses caught in her fingers, slightly less than half full.

“Care for a drink?” she asks you.

You take one of the glasses and clink it carefully against hers, and the ringing-glass sound does not aggravate your headache as badly as you feared it might. You both sip in tandem, and she smacks her lips in satisfaction. “Though many a year’s been given to me, I’ve poured all my nights out upon the wide sea,” you sing-song.

“So drink up, my hearties, yo- _ho!”_ she finishes, and the last syllable is an octave higher because your free hand has dropped to give her rear end a friendly pinch. She half-glares and takes another dignified sip of wine, and you almost slosh yours out of your glass because you’re shaking with silent laughter.

You both drain your glasses and leave them with maroon stains next to the console table, and your bedroom door swishes shut behind you as she unzips her uniform and lets it puddle on the floor. She's long and lithe and your hands are so light against her skin you wish you were able to draw it, to capture these moments with ink and paper.

But maybe you don't mind keeping her to yourself.

*#*#*

Your headache complains louder than you do when your door whisks open, letting in a flood of fluorescent light and Zia's call of “Up an at 'em, ladies. Captain, LaRue wants you on the line in thirty—and gods of Egypt, wear a scarf or something, that's one hell of a hickey.” She sets two mugs of steaming coffee down on your bedside table with a couple of offensively loud thumps before leaving the room with the whoosh of the door in her wake.

“Does she ever sleep?” you grumble as you sit up, leaning over Reyna's back to retrieve one of the mugs.

“Mmm, no,” Reyna says, burrowing deeper into your sheets. “That's why she's so good at her job.”

“Make my bed before you leave,” you tell her, and drain your coffee in one gulp before padding across the floor to retrieve clothes from your wardrobe.

“You owe me,” she mumbles from the pillow.

“I can always pay you back,” you say, and when you turn around she's propped herself up on her elbows and looking at you like she wants to eat you alive.

“That can be arranged,” she agrees.

 


End file.
